Most Beautiful and Pure
by Faldon113
Summary: Harry Potter isn't traumatized. He doesn't have issues. He's perfectly fine, if it wasn't for all these books that say they tell his story but are just an assorted mix of lies. But when the recommendation comes to tell his story himself, the young savior must confront the memories he'd rather ignore. Written for a class.


_The Most Beautiful and Powerful Magic_

Monday mornings in the Ministry of Magic were usually pretty quiet. Sleepy witches and wizards traded tired greetings as everyone shuffled towards their offices. The lounge, especially, was rather subdued in the morning hours. Well, most of the time, at least.

This Monday morning, Hermione was only slightly surprised when a book was slammed onto the table before her. Checking her traditional comment about how to treat books, she instead looked up at an irate Harry. Before she could ask what was wrong, he threw himself into a chair with an aggravated sigh. "They never get it right!"

"What happened this time?" the witch asked, carefully rescuing the offending book. It only took a glance at the title for most of the questions to be answered. '_The Early Life of the Boy-Who-Lived'_. Here they go again. It was sort of ridiculous how much these books got wrong, considering Harry was always chewing out publishers for printing lies.

"The Dursley's didn't worship me," Harry spat angrily. "Hagrid came to get me, not Dumbledore. I was not beloved by even muggles, and if one more person uses the phrase 'eyes glistening with the tears of his past' I'm going to bring Voldemort back and let him destroy the world."

A small part of Hermione's mind wanted to admonish her friend for saying such things, but she chose to hold her tongue instead. The Battle of Hogwarts was six years ago, but no matter what he did, Harry was still at the center of everyone's attention. Hundreds of books had been printed about his life, yet not a single one was accurate. It was completely natural for him to be frustrated.

"Maybe you should write the story yourself," she suggested gently. "At least it would be accurate this time."

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," her friend snorted. "You do recall, I hope, that I can't write to save my life. After so many years together in Hogwarts, do you truly believe I can write an entire book?"

"Yes," she said simply, startling Harry. "Granted, it will probably require some editing, which I'd be happy to do for you, but I honestly do believe that you can write a book about your life." Seeing that her friend was still stuck in shock, Hermione shook her head, though she was faintly smiling. One would think that after all these years, Harry would be a little more accustomed to compliments.

In truth, Hermione had been waiting for an opportunity just like this to come around. Harry was her best friend, and she loved him dearly, but he'd never gotten over the abuse that his so-called family had heaped upon him. She and Ron had tried for years and years to help, but that damn stubbornness had reared its head, and he'd kept insisting that he was fine. He wouldn't talk about what the Dursley's had done to him, about the abuse, about the trauma of the war, nothing! For Merlin's sake, he made an oyster look like a chatterbox! Hermione had even tried to find psych-therapists, but the only thing she'd discovered was that the wizarding world didn't have any. After tearing the medical experts apart for their disregard for a person's mental condition, she'd finally been forced to admit that the only way to help her friend was to make him talk herself.

There were easier tasks in the world. Like looking a basilisk in the eye and not dying.

"You're joking," Harry finally said flatly, eyes flicking about to determine if she was or not. Hermione just gazed back at him levelly. "You're not."

"I am not," she replied firmly, discreetly tucking the offending book into her bag. She'd deal with the author and publisher later. There were times she was grateful to have taken a position in the law fields. It made it easier to take people to task for printing lies about any of her friends. "Think about it, Harry. You can finally tell the truth to the world. These books full of lies will lose their popularity, the record will be set straight for history, and you might finally work through some of your issues." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were the wrong words to say.

Sure enough, Harry instantly rolled his eyes, almost visibly discarding her idea. "I've told you, I don't have any issues to work through." That alone told her that she was right, but Hermione knew better to mention it, so she just scowled.

"Then figure things out yourself," she snapped sharply, gathering her stuff together with a huff. "Let me know if you need me to bail you out. Again!" Then, on a cloud of frustration and irritation, she swept out of the lounge, sending other witches and wizards scrambling for cover. A pissed off Hermione was not something any living person was willing to take on. Ever since she'd punched Malfoy in the face again – but that was another story.

Harry was left alone in the lounge, but he didn't leave. Instead, he stared into empty space, letting Hermione's words sink into his mind. They made a lot of sense, he had to admit it. While he was not exactly excited about the idea of telling his story to the entire Magical world, it had to be better than allowing everyone to print and read those lies that were floating around like poisonous mold spoors.

But to tell the world about his life! It was unthinkable! He'd spent years protecting his past and his secrets. Surely he was allowed a few, right? The very last thing he wanted was for someone like Rita Skeeter to come along and write about him, revealing everything to the public. Yet in someways, it was almost like she already had. There had to be hundreds of books about him, not a single one accurate, though none had actually been written by Rita. All Hermione had to do was shake an empty jar in Skeeter's direction and the woman would vanish for months at a time. However, it was only a matter of time before she also decided to write a book that detailed Harry's entire life.

Sighing, Harry got to his feet and left the lounge, unaware of the sigh of relief that was released behind him. He knew he'd need to apologize to Hermione eventually, but right at that moment he just wanted someplace quiet to think. Luckily, he knew just the place. All it took was a smile and wave to the Ministry guards as he left and a quick apparition before he was in what Hermione had fondly dubbed his "thinking-space".

It wasn't much, to be sure. Just the old park that was near the house where Harry had grown up. The place was usually abandoned, allowing the young man to sit and think in solitude. He was sure that he must look pretty strange; a full grown adult sitting on a swing and staring at nothing wasn't normal. That was one reason he did it. Anything to have some silent revenge against his "family".

Though he would never be as smart as Hermione, Harry wasn't stupid. He knew that she and Ron were right about his abuse issues and the trauma from the war. It wasn't that he didn't want to get better, but he was still afraid, in a way. After spending the majority of his life being hated and hunted by various and assorted people, the idea of making himself vulnerable to anyone was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. Writing a book about his life would be the ultimate example of putting absolutely everything on the table. No more secrets, no more walls, he'd be as open and vulnerable as he had been when Voldemort had first attacked his family.

But maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what he needed.

The raven-haired man sat on the swing for hours, struggling with himself as his mind wavered between agreement with his old friend and vehement refusal that writing the book himself was a good idea. He trusted Hermione, he really did, but this could all go so wrong. Once the words were out in the world, there would be no way for him to take them back, no retreat options. However, if the books worked, than the whole battle about his past would be finished for good. No more reporters trying to break into his records, no more non-violent assaults on his friends for information, no more political people twisting his supposed past to support their own platforms.

And who knows, maybe Harry himself would finally be able to sleep easily at night. Stranger things had happened. A half-giant telling him he was a wizard, for example.

With his mind made up, Harry reached into his coat and pulled out the small book that he always carried incase he had to make notes. He didn't have a quill, but his muggle pen would suffice. There was so much to say, he'd have to be careful not to miss anything. For a brief moment he paused, wondering where he was supposed to start with his story. It was still too painful to speak of his parent's death, and starting at Hogwarts was too far into his life. The point of the book was to tell the truth, so it would be for the best that he started with the absolute truth, no matter how ugly it happened to be. And so, he began to write.

"_Mr. and Mrs. Dursely, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense._"

Let the story begin.

Several years later

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Harry grumbled yet again, hearing the muted hum of voices on the other side of the door. Not once had he thought that the writing of his story, which had become seven very exhaustive books, would have such a profound effect upon the world. The wizarding world had been in uproar, finally knowing the truth about their beloved savior. Good things had come about, of course, not the least of which was the recognition that Severus Snape so dearly deserved. It had been worth the sudden increase in interview requests, just knowing that the books had done that much.

But it hadn't ended with the Magical world. Somehow, Hermione had managed to convince Harry to release his story to the muggles as well, saying that it was a story that was very relatable and that there were millions of people that would find hope from what he had gone through. It had taken months of pleas, orders, and a few outright threats, before he'd agreed, though he'd put his foot down on a couple points. To keep the two worlds separate, he had changed certain names in the muggle versions so that they would not know true locations. He also insisted on using a pen name in place of his real one, not wanting any muggle to even theorize that the books were fact and not fiction.

Hermione had agreed to his terms and now here they were, getting ready to release the final book to the muggle world. The success had been more than Harry had ever dreamed it could have been. He knew that there were millions of people standing in lines around the world, waiting to get their hands on the last book of the series. He was actually in a book store in New York, having chosen it as the place where he would sign books for free. For a while, hidden and safe in the back room, he'd pretended to be Gildroy, but Hermione had put an end to that with a well aimed Stinging hex. It was only now, with minutes to go, that he became nervous.

"You'll be fine," Hermione soothed, giving her friend a critical once over. For security, they had both agreed that Harry's pen name should be female, leading him to take the author name of J.K. Rowling, but they hadn't quite though of what that would mean for public appearances. Every time there was some sort of public event, they both had to go through a long process of charms and potions to take the forms of the people they pretended to be. In the beginning, a slight slip-up wasn't too bad, but now it could be catastrophic. However, Harry looked pretty good. Blonde hair in place, black dress well taken care of, gold jacket wasn't leaning towards atrocious. Yes, they'd be fine.

A roar from the door had them both wincing, before trying to smile for each other. That was their cue. With a final deep breath, they both stepped out the door and into the arms of their fans.

It was a very long and exhausting day for them both. Hermione, pretending to be the editor, worked all the reporters with a practiced ease, while Harry was almost swamped with his adoring fans. There was no single type of person in the line. Adults, children, males, females, nerds, jocks, mean girls, every skin color on the planet, they were all there. By the end of the day, Harry's cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and his hand was cramped beyond belief. Yet he couldn't stop a feeling of abject disappointment when he left the store. If it was only his wants and desire that had to be taken into account, he would have been happy to stay there all day.

"Time to go home," Hermione said, rubbing out the cramps in her own hand. She must have shaken more hands that day than she had her entire Hogwarts career. The pair knew it wasn't over yet. There were still movies to be made (Harry was still getting over the surreal feeling of watching a young muggle boy pretending to be him), Hermione kept talking about some website she thought they should make (_Pottermore_? Seriously? What kind of name was that?!), and, of course, the constant influx of fan mail (the nice thing about muggle fan mail is there was guaranteed to be no Howlers). So the release of the final book was hardly the end of the story for the pair of friends, but for one night at least, they could rest. Trading smiles, the two friends started to walk away from the store, but suddenly paused at a shout. Turning back around, Harry saw a young, bald child running towards them. The parents were farther back, also running, but it was the child who held Harry's attention, because of the book that was being carried.

"Mrs. Rowling!" the child called again, finally coming close enough that Harry could see the dress that proved it was a girl. "Please wait!" Kneeling down, Harry patiently waited for the girl to reach them. She was panting by the time she did, but the smile on her face was still quite large and bright. Covering a small cough, the girl thrust her book towards Harry and said, "Could you sign it, please? I know we missed the actual signing time but, please?" Gently, Harry took the book from the girl and realized that it wasn't the new one that had been released. It was a very old and battered copy of his first book. From the wear and tear, he guessed that it must have been read a hundred times and was clearly very loved.

"Of course I will," he told her with a smile, taking a pen out of his bag. "What is your name?"

"Ada," the girl told him excitedly, nearly bouncing up and down in joy. "Ada Merryweather. Thank you so much, Mrs. Rowling. I'm sorry we didn't get here in time for the official signing, but my chemo session ran late."

Harry's pen paused over the paper as he stared at the girl in shock. "Chemo?" he asked, suddenly starting to understand why she was bald.

"Yes," Ada answered easily, the smile not dimming in the least. "I have leukemia. The doctors don't know how much time I have left, but I think I can beat it!" Then she became sheepish, kicking the ground lightly. "That's why I had to come see you. A nurse gave me that book and said that I could do anything, just like Harry. His whole story has shown me that I can do anything I set my mind to, but the first one is my favorite. It reminds me that Harry's not just the Boy-Who-Lived. He's also Just Harry. Just like me."

Holding back the tears, Harry smiled back and nodded before returning to the page he was signing. 'To Ada Merryweather: Never give up on your dreams, for in you lies the most beautiful and powerful of all magic. Hope and love. ~Harry Potter.' Handing the book back to its owner, Harry watched her face light up again before she hugged him tightly. By that time her parents had arrived, so Harry gave her back to them and watched the family walk away.

Later that night, Hermione would think about how her friend had grabbed her in the tightest hug she'd ever had and whispered, "Thank you for telling me to write those books," in her ear. She would think about how he had grown and healed with every published book. And maybe she would even give herself a pat on the back for a job well done. But in that moment, she just stood by Harry's side as he silently watched the little girl walk away, knowing that they had both healed each other in the couple minutes they'd had together. Hopefully, it would be enough.

For both of them.


End file.
